Dead Deals
by Vivaciti
Summary: "Section 13G-#3949: When making deals, not all transactions close and dead deal costs are inevitable." First the Maitlands vanish, then sinister figures attempt to steal The Handbook, and now her parents remember nothing? Desperate for help, Lydia summons the one specter dangerous enough to offer some answers, but what's the catch? ...And why do they sell Ouija boards to teenagers?


We've all seen the movie, and we all know about (or have seen) the animated series. So, naturally, we've all thought it: Why the hell would a nice Goth girl like Lydia willingly hang out with an unstable, dead scumbag who almost killed her father and nearly forced her into matrimony? Furthermore, whatever happened to the Maitlands? Surely something significant had to occur in the year preceding the animated series to cause their conspicuous absence…

That being said, I'm going to offer my own take on the whole "_Betelgeuse-and-Lydia-abruptly-settling-past-differences-enough-to-become-best-friends-or-whatever-they-are_" shebang. I plan to use elements from both the movie and the series, so hang on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen, 'cause we're gonna have us a good ol' time. I'm hoping this will be quite different from what has been done before. Feedback is heartily welcomed.

Rating may change depending on where I go with this. The current rating is primarily for Beej's stupid, foul mouth.

The jerk.

**_Story Cover Illustration: _**_Beetlejuice_ by Lollo-hehe (DeviantArt; used with permission. Go check her out!)

_**Disclaimer**_: I do not own Beetlejuice, the movie or animated series – those masterpieces belong to Tim Burton and The Geffen Film Company. I'm just a-writin' because a-writin' is fun. :)

-oo0oo-

**Dead Deals**

_**See Section 13G-#3949: Not all transactions close and dead deal costs are inevitable.**_

-oo0oo-

**Prologue: Ouch**

Loosening his thin tie, he decided that the room was much, _much_ too stuffy – which most likely had everything to do with the inorganic flow of the entire office building. Of course, it could have just as well been everything to do with the sun that was blazing though ineffectual blinds of the window just opposite the plush leather day couch where he stiffly lounged. As a bead of sweat trickled down his temple, he pondered if for these sessions – and _only_ these sessions – he should change into an ensemble that was a bit less formal. Perhaps a cotton short-sleeved dress shirt beneath his charcoal blazer?

Lord in heaven, what a thought. Truly, he was losing his mind.

But Otho Fenlock, interior designer and fashion extraordinaire, would have rather worn all of the most hideously mundane articles of clothing before ever cursing the sun. Despite the fact that nightmare-fueled insomnia had descended upon his life for _the past six months_, he opted to have sessions in the morning…in the light…when there was a distinct lack of darkness. He almost always caught some sleep afterward.

Needless to say, his social life had gone to complete shit, and his _sanity_ was getting there.

"So, _chartreuse_, you say?" his therapist murmured, and he heard faint scribbles upon her notebook. His eyes had been focused on the hideous paper border that lined where the ceiling and walls joined. "That is quite a vibrant color to experience in a dream," she continued, and he grimaced at her neutrality.

"It's a filthy, disgusting color!" he spat, his hands flying to his face as he vigorously rubbed his eye sockets. "With mauve and puce accents? In striped patterns?" He sat up suddenly, flinging his legs around the couch as his plunged a finger into his shirt collar, coaxing the fabric away from his sweating throat. "I'm going to be _sick_ thinking about this again. We need to move _on_."

His therapist regarded him over her thickly framed glasses for a moment before gently closing the notebook. "Moving on is what you really want, isn't it?" Otho slowly looked up, instantly locking on to her leading, albeit calm tone. A frown deepened on his face, and his eyes darted towards the clock. _Ten minutes left._

"When no one else acknowledges how you feel, it is certainly like you have been left behind," she offered, a lilt of sympathy in her statement.

Otho snapped his eyes back to the therapist. "No one _remembers!_" he barked, gripping at his knees. "And I _thought_ we agreed we weren't going to talk about this?"

She took in a quiet breath and settled back into her chair. "In these dreams yo-"

"_Nightmares_."

"Nightmares, my apologies," she corrected. "In these nightmares, you mostly mention the horrible colors, but you have never mentioned if you see…anyone involved with the incident. Does anyone appear to you? Any other reoccurring themes you may have noticed?"

Otho sighed heavily, his eyes darting to the clock again. _Eight minutes._

"Just…just the laughter." The designer's eyes flickered back to the clock nervously. My, what ugly wallpaper for a therapist's office.

"The laughter?"

He gritted his teeth. "_His_ laughter." He barely realized that he was violently wringing his hands. _What terrible wallpaper!_ Why had he never noticed this before? Certainly, he was losing his touch. "Right in my _goddamn ears_."

"By 'His' do you mean Charles' laughter?"

Otho growled in frustration and sunk his face into his hands. "_No_, of course I don't mean _Charles!_" He feverishly mussed his carefully styled hair and snapped his head back up at the therapist. "Charles barely laughs at _anything!_ If Charles could laugh, he wouldn't have had a nervous breakdown! When has _Charles_ ever…"

Since when was she wearing that _horrendous_ magenta pantsuit?

He swallowed. "Um...that. Um, it wasn't Charles."

"Then can you tell me how the laughter sounded? Was it menacing? Or mirthful, maybe?"

"It was…it was horrible, screeching…laughter. Just so _insane_…" His brows furrowed as his therapist leaned forward in her chair, not breaking eye contact with him as she set her notebook aside on the neon yellow end table. The distance she closed left only about four feet between them.

"And can you demonstrate that laughter for me?"

He shifted suddenly, startled by her request. "Uh…what?"

"I said: can you show me the laughter? Can you do it?"

Otho blinked. "Ah…wait, _what?_" Yes, it was very, _very_ hot in that office. And ugly. My god, how _ugly_.

"I don't understand what you…um…mean."

The therapist tilted a grin suddenly, her hands coming to rest on her knees so that her elbows pointed sharply outward. Her eyes twinkled for a moment, and Otho could have sworn that a small beetle scuttled across her blonde hairline.

"You can't? Then maybe_ I_ can give it a shot."

He watched in horror as she opened her mouth inhumanly wide, her eyes rolling back into their darkened sockets as a piercing cackle erupted from her throat. The gruesome sound seemed to come from _everywhere_, surrounding him in disturbing, impossible stereo. As his instant response was hyperventilation, Otho found he lacked the ability to properly scream. Choking in terror when the therapist's hand shot out and grabbed his now tangerine shirt collar, which brought his face inches from hers, he stared in muted horror as her countenance transformed into the visage of the moldy, rotting man who had chronically plagued his nightmares for nearly half a year.

"Come on, round boy," the dead man rasped, his laughter still sounding around them, "WE'RE GOING TO HAVE SOME LAUGHS – _EEEE_HEEHEEHEE_HEEEE!_"

Otho abruptly awoke in a cold sweat, gasping as he wildly thrashed among his the covers, knocking his many pillows to the ground. The morning sun streamed through the slits of his bedroom blinds, half blinding him as he stumbled out of bed and to the windows, cursing and tripping over his fallen bed furnishings. He caught himself on the muslin curtain, which promptly tore from the curtain rod, sending him crashing to the floor.

Otho sat there for a minute or two, whimpering softly, and slowly wrapped himself in the fabric of his destroyed window décor. His eyes found the face of the clock.

7:43AM. Appointment was at 10:00AM.

Rocking himself gently, he quietly hoped his nightmare was not a premonition, or he would need a new therapist _stat_. Augh, what did it matter anyway? He had lost most of his clients at this point; there were plenty of talented designers clamoring for work who had not yet lost their grip on reality. These nightmares had made his _life_ a nightmare so why not have a demonic therapist while he was at it?

Maybe he would just cancel and go get a drink instead. He glanced around at his disheveled bedroom, glad for the umpteenth time that he lived alone.

Whisky sounded right.

-oo0oo-

Betelgeuse cackled.

Well, he cackled in the way his current form would allow, at least, which was more of a weird vibration of fizzing energy and a pop. He may not even be corporeal here, but shit, astral projecting was a _delightful_ way to pass the time.

Inky blackness enveloped him once again, and he knew he was back to his little abyss of boredom. Peering in through the murk, his "fingers" reached out, grasping to touch the fuzziness that lay around the corners of his eyes, hoping for a hold of something tangible. It never came. No sense of stability, just the illusion of substance, but nothing really there. Air, mostly. Cobwebs of illusion, partly.

In short: a whole lot of nothing.

He retracted his "hand" and hummed a sigh, his amusement over and boredom promptly creeping in. This was the point where he was again struck with the reality that he would wait there like some dog, straining to hear the call of a master. It was the only thing he could really do at this point: wait to be walked. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a Living soul who knew his name who would _actually_ dare to call him out. How _boooring_ was his existence; nothing to do but listen to the sound of his own mind churning like some rundown factory, producing nothing but defective garbage.

And, man, oh man, that garbage was piling up.

He would have completely lost track of time, had it not been for Otho's sleep schedule, however erratic it may have become. His reactions to the various nightmares Betelgeuse conjured were always a trip, and lately the man had been insisting that no one remembered the Maitland incident but him. Maybe the sucker was finally starting to crack. After all, Betelgeuse figured he'd been doing that nightmare gag for about six months now.

_Heh._

A rumbling cracked through his musings. Such sounds came and went, their intervals of occurrence a mystery to him; they just happened, he didn't keep track. That was _work_. He always imagined some other lost souls must be floating around in the darkness with him, so for all he knew it could have been them groaning about their own abysmal fate. Perhaps they were too far apart to communicate? Invisible to each other, perhaps? Still, imagining them gave him a strange sense of comfort – more along the lines that there were others suffering the same fate as he, rather than the idea of actually having company. He wanted out, not a pity-party with some other floating scumbag.

He wasn't a sap.

Yet, he was pretty sure that floating scumbags or not, they would probably find some mutual hatred for Juno, the oh-so high and mighty, rule-abiding killjoy that she was.

_Hell, she probably put them there as well_, he reminisced bitterly...

...

Number 665 ticked on the "now serving" screen just as a lithe, purple ghoul with a gunshot wound on the right side of her forehead peeked her face around the secretary office threshold. Clutching a note, she cleared her throat lightly. "Mr. Geuse…B. Geuse? Ms. Juno wishes to see you now."

Well,_ that _certainly gave him a start. Betelgeuse, who had busied himself with re-reading the same Slime Weekly magazine for the forty-eighth time, quickly snatched his ticket out of his pocket. He snorted at the obscene figure it presented.

_**9,998,383,750,000**__._

Could she…wait _what? _He looked back up at the ticker and back to his ticket again. So, the old bat was throwing bureaucratic procedure out the window to see_ **him?**_

Triumphantly surveying the Waiting Room full of disgusted, dismayed, and generally decayed faces, Betelgeuse crumpled his long number ticket and jumped to his feet, carelessly flicking the ball of paper to the floor where it promptly disintegrated. A man with half a jaw and a pipe through his chest stared daggers at him, but no one moved to impede his arrogant procession to the door where the purple civil servant waited, clearly annoyed._  
><em>  
>"Hey, c'mon now, chumps. Stiff upper lip now! <em>Eh-hah-hah-heh!<em>" the poltergeist rasped in a squeaky voice. "We can't all be Juno's Favorite."

For the nonsensicality that time was in the Waiting Room, Betelgeuse could nevertheless tell that he had barely been there long at all, all things considered. Sandworm digestive juices and sand still fresh on his clothes, his head still shrunk down to the size of a baseball (courtesy of his little mishap with the long-gone Medicine Man), and his powers barely intact, he half wished he could have had a little more time to collect himself before breaking bones with the old hag who was summoning him._  
><em>  
>Juno was breaking Administrative order; she had to be pissed.<p>

Directed down the twisting hall and up a flight of stairs with only a banister protecting him and anyone else from accidentally slipping into the bluish whirling abyss that at the very bottom floor, Betelgeuse found Juno's door ajar and waiting patiently for a visitor. Stepping into the sickly green glow of her disheveled office, the door slammed shut of its own accord.

"_**Sit**__._"

She didn't look up. She was scribbling furiously on some miscellaneous document.

"Ain't no dog and good to see you too," he mumbled as he plopped heavily into the dusty wooden chair, sand dislodging from his clothing. Juno's eyes shot up at him, her face pinching into an expression as if she had just licked the ass of a wild boar.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" she gestured at his shrunken head. "I can't take you seriously like that – who the hell did you manage to piss off in such a short time? Wait. Stop. I don't want to know." Snapping her fingers, Betelgeuse felt the unsettling tingle of his head returning to its normal size. He patted his sandy hair and turned his head around once for good measure just to make sure it was still securely fastened to his neck._  
><em>  
>"Aw, bless yer little heart," he murmured ungratefully, his warbling vision still adjusting to the change in perspective. "Woof, if that doesn't give ya a sense of vertigo, what will?"<p>

"And you smell like Sandworm shit."

"You know, I try. I really do."

"Shut up."

They stared at each other, both with fixed glares that could have very well melted the face off of anyone with a weaker constitution. Juno abruptly turned back to her paper, scrawled a signature across it, and placed it inside an obscenely hefty file so overwhelmingly stuffed that it was just barely holding together. Snatching her cigarette out of the ashtray, she leaned back, regarding him with a sudden, but intense, quietness.

"I don't know what is going to get through that disgustingly think skull of yours, so let me try to make this as clear as possible," she drew deeply from her cigarette as if to draw strength. No, no – not strength: patience.

"We have rules for a reason, Betelgeuse. You break them and there are consequences, pure and simple. All these loopholes you've been dancing through? Well, that ends now. What I mean by that is: You're in a _heaping_ pile of Trouble. Capital T."

Juno grabbed an obscenely thick file on her desk and slammed it down in front of him with such force that everything upon her desk jumped an inch or two. "Do you see this file? This is all you. Warnings, citations, fines, indictments, complaints – all you. You know what else is all you? A four by five storage unit I had to personally request The Administration for so that I had a place to keep all of your _**shit**_ in. Such a thing doesn't often happen, but for you, of course, it did."

He sneered, placing his hands behind his head. "Eh, yeah, but you know it ain't my fault if people make bad deals. Not like I don't give them a standard ultimatum or nothin'. More than half those things ya got in there is a load of _bull _anyway."

Had he had any 'juice left he was sure that at the utterance of those words, some kind of crazed bull should have come crashing out of that file or through the office door or something. Alas, no such luck. He frowned slightly at his obvious lack of power, and Juno whipped her cigarette to the ground, fully knowing his mischievous intentions.

"Do you think this is a _game?_" she questioned, incredulous. "This is your Afterlife on the line, you idiot! Are you honestly that stupid?"

"Honestly? _Pfft._ It's been goin' about 584 years strong, so I'd say I'm doin' pretty well, thanks. Still got all my digits." Juno pursed her lips as she watched him hold up his hands and wiggle is fingers. Each one had a number on it, and, naturally, he had added three extra thumbs.

So, ok, he wasn't powerless.

She conjured another cigarette between her fingers, regarding him with a stony gaze. "You know that the Administration has been watching you."

Betelgeuse offered an exaggerated eye roll at the statement. "Babes, The Administration might as well be a fairy tale. What do they even do besides crack the whip over you pencil pushers? Like they _really_ care about one dead sleazeball among a sea of dead sleazeballs."

Juno violently stomped her foot and the lights flickered briefly, jarring Betelgeuse, much to his chagrin. "How many times must you be warned that attempted homicide of the Living is not part of yours or anyone else's Haunting License?!"

She opened the thick file and conjured a pair of reading glasses. "Shape-shifting assault and battery? Allowing yourself to be seen corporeally by multiple Living humans?" The pale ghost smirked, recollection of his handiwork flashing through his memory. "And attempting to break your curse through _forced marriage_ with a minor?!" Juno slammed the file closed, outraged. "You are a poltergeist, _**not ****a demon!**_"

He leaned forward resting his elbows upon his knees, cocky. "Business is business, Babes. I made a de-"_  
><em>  
><em>"<em>_**I am not finished!**_" she screeched. Betelgeuse winced at the outburst and retracted back into his chair.

Why yes, she was indeed pissed.

Juno lit her cigarette with a flame from her thumb and inhaled deeply. "You're powerful, Betelgeuse, no one will ever deny that. But you're not God, and you cannot do what you like, even if you think you have the means to." Seemingly regaining a bit of her composure, she pushed his file of offenses off to the side and leaned forward upon her desk.

"You want to talk business?" she asked rhetorically, "Fine. We can cut to the chase. This is the third case in _**only**_ one hundred years where you have severely overstepped your bounds with The Living. Due to this, The Administration sees you as a threat and has found it necessary to take action against you. You will be punished beyond that of restricting your access to The Living Side and will be pl-"

Betelgeuse nearly spasmed out of his chair at her words, and he frantically waved his hands in an effort to abate her impending statement.

"WHOA, I'm just going to stop ya right there, Juno, because let's take a goddamn moment to get the facts crystal; I made a deal, see? A fair deal at that!" he exclaimed, stabbing an index finger into the air for emphasis. "I held up my bargain, and that…that depressing _brat_ and those two deadbeat-country-bumpkin freshies tossed me to the 'worms. Tell me again how I've overstepped my parole? I do a fuckin' business! I know very we-mfmmmfm! Mmmfmmm? _MMMMNNN!_" he all but shrieked, but Juno had summoned a metal plate over his mouth that he found, much to his dismay, he could not counter-conjure.

Juno shot up from her chair, enraged. "But you weren't supposed to! That was NOT the parole agreement, and you know that very well! If I could, I'd strip you of your abilities and send you to Saturn, but I can't, and I have more pressing matters to deal with _than babysit a bonafide psychopath who doesn't know the meaning of 'impulse control!'"  
><em>

Betelgeuse was barely listening to her, as he was feverishly attempting to tear off the metal plate so he could get a word in. He didn't really care if part of his face came off with it; he knew the rules and he KNEW there was a legal jargon bullshit way to get out of this _IF SHE WOULD JUST LET HIM SPEAK_.

"Soulitary Refinement," she stated simply, observing his struggle. "You have officially lost the luxury and privileges of the Waiting Room."

With wild, desperate eyes he glared at her, pausing his frenzy for the briefest of moments, and it took almost every drop of the his willpower to not lunge across the paper-laden desk at her in indignant fury. Seemingly sensing this volatile animosity, Juno summoned a straightjacket around him, and, thrashing violently in surprise at this new addition to his ensemble, the poltergeist toppled unceremoniously off of his chair with a painful_ WHUMP._

_"MMNNN! MMMFMMMFFMMMFFFMNN!"  
><em>

Slowly standing to view his disheveled position on her paper-strewn office floor, Juno pursed her lips. "Betelgeuse, I don't have time for you or your antics," she sighed wearily. "For your current infraction against the living, it is within my power to hold you in contempt of your current parole until the Netherworld Administration can figure out what the hell to do with you." She took another drag from her cigarette – whether this pause was in thought or purely for effect, Betelgeuse was not sure.

"Oh, don't make that face. You brought this upon yourself. You'll be damn lucky if all they give you is more Parole after they review the vast accumulation of offenses on your record."

She steadied her gaze at him and ignored the way he writhed against the straight jacket in protest, leaning over to address him more closely. "Now stop wriggling around and listen to me. This next part isn't a personal tip – I'm obligated to tell you this," she stated coldly.

"If you can find a person to speak on your behalf at your upcoming Hearing, of your good conduct or some remote display of decency – which I find doubtful – you may have better luck with your sentencing. When your Hearing will be is another matter entirely; you may be waiting for quite a long time. …Well, you know firsthand how things are here."

Betelgeuse, who had continued squirming, paused and stared up at her, a bloodthirsty look in his eyes. If he could, he would have given her the middle finger and told her to 'go get herself Exorcised.'

It was then that Juno straightened up and sighed, a moment of rare and misplaced sympathy flashing across her features.

"You should see yourself right now," she stated, sucking in more of the would-be toxic smoke. It casually escaped through the slice across her wrinkled throat.

"_Don't you ever want to Move On?"_

Heh,_ no_, not really.

Betelgeuse swirled around a bit in the suspended abyss in an uncomfortable attempt to stretch, even though there wasn't really anything _to_ stretch in his amorphous state. Old habits, and all.

He fizzed a growl at the embarrassing memory of it all. Nothing for him in the Beyond but fire and brimstone, he was sure. Who the hell would willingly give up what he had established in the Netherworld? The 'Ghost with the Most' relegated to some squealing, tortured, nameless soul? He'd pass, _thankyaverymuch_.

Of course, no one in the Netherworld plane _really_ knew what Moving On entailed. He wasn't sure Juno knew either; she just shuffled around paperwork and was a general _bitch_. It was no wonder why so many beings who ended up in the purgatory of the Netherworld clung to it for eons if they could. They usually stuck around, making a true Afterlife for themselves in the Netherworld, dodging the Administration, Judgment, and _Sandworms_ as much as they could, for as long as they could.

But honestly (_blech_) he wasn't even really sure if he _could_ Move On.

All of this musing was useless anyway because for now he was just a shapeless ghoul floating in the _bullshit abyss of Soulitary Fuckin'-Goddam-it-all Refinement_. He tried snapping his fingers for the zillionth time to no avail; hah, he didn't have fingers _here_.

At least he wasn't being digested in the belly of a Sandworm anymore.

Fuckin' _**OUCH.**_

And THAT was another thing! Their deal was _solid_. An ultimatum was clearly presented! Retaining status quo or offering intervention – a _classic _deal right there! He saved the Afterlives of the Maitlands and what did he get for it? He got to be the surprise main course of a Sandworm's supper. Legally, he couldn't hold the Maitlands to anything because they had not made the deal, but that girl…

That…_**Lydia**_.

He thought they were on the same page and the little shit went and utterly ripped him off! _Swindled him!_ Bamboozled! She _completely_ conned the Netherworld's premier con artist in a rare _fair_ deal! It was _outrageous!_

Netherworld Justice, _pah!_ If justice in the Netherworld existed, it would be that wannabe Goth girl floating around in this godforsaken abyss instead of him. She should be the one experiencing the stomach acid of a Sandworm. Yes, SHE should be dealing with the wrath of the Administration for breaking deals with the _Dead!_ _Then_ she would most _certainly_ know what happens when you try to double-cross _The Ghost with the Most!_

_Oooh_, if he _ever_ got out…

Betelgeuse was suddenly aware that in his anger he had begun to spark and crackle, briefly lighting the nothingness to reveal more nothingness. He reluctantly reined it in and sizzled a frustrated sigh. It was useless to exert so much energy when he couldn't do anything more than be a boogeyman in some poor sap's nightmares. Too bad he was only able to locate Otho's subconscious and _not_ the Deetz family's…or anyone else's for that matter. He didn't know why this was, and he didn't really care. That kind of mental exertion was pointless, and he had had enough of _that_ during the first few months of Soulitary. Everything was pointless at the moment. All he knew was if he could locate them, he would have a _fucking._ _field. day._

Another rumble echoed through the abyss. He swirled a moment.

…_Wonder what the kid's doin' now._

-oo0oo-

**A/N: BJ, you broke Otho, you ass. Maybe the Administration was right on the money when they put you in Soulitary!**

**Guys, this was SO fun to write. Thanks so much for reading! Please review if you'd like to see more! It motivates me; I won't lie. :)**


End file.
